


Trading Hearts

by doctor__idiot



Category: Supernatural
Genre: 12x11 "Regarding Dean", Episode Related, Gen, M/M, Slash or Gen, canon non-compliant, this is not a happy story, whichever you prefer
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-13
Updated: 2017-02-13
Packaged: 2018-09-24 03:56:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,130
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9699416
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/doctor__idiot/pseuds/doctor__idiot
Summary: Dean stops talking and Sam panics.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I can't believe I actually wrote this. I am so sorry.
> 
> Disclaimer: Nothing's mine. Unbeta'd. I wrote this very quickly and there will be typos.

It takes Sam embarrassingly long to realize that Dean has forgotten how to read.

His brother has been wearing a near-constant frown for the past two days, so much so that it gives Sam a headache just looking at it, squinting at the post-its Sam distributed all around the motel room and the Impala, his head cocked to the side as if in deep thought. Sam has been too busy trying to reach Rowena, trying to find a cure somewhere in the depths of his laptop, to recognize the signs.

Until Dean bends down over the small nightstand at the right of his bed, blinking blankly at the little note stuck to the lamp, and points at the yellow paper. “What’s this say?”

Sam’s first instinct is to respond with a flippant remark like, ‘Knock it off, my handwriting’s not _that_ bad,’ but then he sees the incomprehension in his brother’s eyes and the floor drops out from under him. 

“Um,” he says, unable to say more, and all the while Dean is looking at him with the confused curiosity of a child. “It… It says ‘lamp’.”

“Lamp,” Dean repeats, nodding, looking back down at the post-it, frown in full force and for a second Sam is undeniably terrified that Dean isn’t able to comprehend the simple concept of a lamp, either. But then Dean’s face breaks into a grin, one of those happy kid-like ones he has taken to in recent days, and Sam’s heart starts beating again.

+

That evening Dean stops talking and Sam panics.

It’s subtle at first. Sam actually, _idiotically_ , thinks Dean is mad at him because there’s that frown again. But then during one of the Bugs Bunny episodes Dean giddily watches these days, he points to the screen, over-eager, over-excited, and turns to Sam to tell him something, but no words come out of his mouth. Nothing but a small choked sound as if he swallowed something that made it impossible for him to speak, lips hanging slightly open, his face a mask of astonishment.

The surprise lasts only for a second, one second where he still remembers that he _should_ be able to speak, that something is very very wrong, but then his face transforms. Goes back to giddy, back to that huge grin, and he turns back to the screen.

Sam’s fingers are numb when he picks up the phone to call Rowena for what must be the hundredth time – and isn’t that kind of hilarious, calling a centuries old witch on her iPhone? But Sam isn’t laughing, it isn’t funny as in funny ‘ha ha’ but as in ‘dramatic irony’ because his brother is going to die and he can’t reach the one person who could help. He knows perfectly well that the witch’s phone hasn’t just run out of battery. Two days ago she disappeared into thin air – literally – and there hasn’t been a bleep ever since. 

Even if Sam could get his hands onto that book, he would still need someone to translate the counter spell and he is painfully aware of how much time he doesn’t have. Dean doesn’t have. 

Dean, who is still merrily watching cartoons, laughing loud but not making himself known in any other way. There’s still a glimmer of hope left inside of Sam, embers in his chest, keeping him breathing, keeping him alive. Hope that maybe it was a fluke, that Dean just forgot momentarily.

There is no bang, no shattering of glass – or maybe there is but instead it’s Sam’s heart that breaks into a million pieces – when the next time Dean turns to him, he simply mimes eating with his hand to say that he is hungry, imaginary fork against his lips, instead of saying a single word.

+

Sam helps Dean dress in jeans and a T-shirt the next morning and thinks, in a detached sort of way, that this is what it must have been like for Dean when they were little. He wishes he could feel more elated about getting to take care of his big brother for once instead of the other way around.

+

They have taken to eating in instead of going to the diner because while Sam might not care about what other people think, he wants to spare his brother the embarrassment of not being able to eat by himself, of having his little brother do ‘the whole thing with the spoon’, of having to change shirts after because he dribbled down the front of the one he’s wearing. Or rather, have Sam change his shirt.

Because Dean is going to be embarrassed when he regains his memory. If he even remembers. Sam sincerely wishes he won’t.

Sam is running on two hours of sleep and he has exhausted nearly every possibility his tired brain can think of. Not that he gets to do much research while simultaneously having to look after a toddler in an environment that is not child-proofed. He’s done the best he can, transferring all the weapons from the room to the car, keeping the key in his back pocket so Dean can’t reach it. He removed their razors from the bathroom and gathered any other sharp objects he could find, packing them in bags and throwing them in the Impala’s trunk.

Dean still listens to him, thank god. Even if most of what Sam says is just “Sit still” or “Don’t touch that”. Any minute now, Dean will forget what even these simple requests mean.

+

Sam starts talking to Dean when Dean stops listening.

+

Dean is sitting on the bed, legs tucked underneath him, tugging at the slowly-unraveling seam of his sweatpants, when Sam asks him, “You all right?”

The last time Sam asked him this was an hour ago, Sam likes to check more frequently now, and Dean gave him a nod, as he usually does. This time he raises his head and stares at Sam, not blankly like he stares at himself in the mirror sometimes, but utterly disoriented, as if he just woke up from a nap, not knowing who, when, or where he is.

Sam’s insides turn to ice. Freezing terror grips him and for a second he is convinced he is going to keel over and pass out. The room swims before his eyes and through it all he can still make out Dean’s frown, always with the frown, and then Dean unfolds his legs, slides off the bed to the floor and shuffles over to where Sam is sitting. He’s half-kneeling, bumping his shoulder against Sam’s leg, looking up at Sam with wide, curious eyes. Entirely devoid of recognition.

Sam lowers himself to the floor. His mind is spinning, his head about to explode, and he’s losing time, there’s so little time, he knows this, but he can’t make himself get back up and try to find a solution. All he can do is sit there on floor of a shitty motel room, cradling his brother’s face in his hands, trying to communicate with his body that he is someone Dean knows, that he is someone Dean needn’t be afraid of. 

Dean continues to just look at him, his face baby-smooth, no crease between his eyebrows marring his skin now, and he reaches out. Sort of clumsily and Sam grabs his wrist to steady him, and when Dean’s fingers touch Sam’s face, fingertips brushing against his cheekbones, they are wet when they come away.

Dean stares down at the wetness, visibly trying and failing to comprehend the world around him, and Sam has never felt so helpless in his life. So alone. He hates himself, hates himself for wishing that his brother was already dead, had already died, just so he wouldn’t have to witness this retrogression. His beautiful, smart, larger-than-life brother unable to understand what is going on around him, recognizing no one, nothing, his brain betraying him, unraveling him from the inside.

Sam knows where this is going and he can’t do anything to stop it. His fingers tighten on Dean’s face and Dean makes a wounded sound and pulls away, scrambling back two feet. A knife twists low and cruel in Sam’s gut and he can’t get air into his lungs, he is crying for real now, hot wetness streaming down his face, staining the carpet.

Dean shuffles closer again, scared animal but too curious to stay away, his fingers brushing over the back of Sam’s hand as if he could read him like that, a seeing man’s braille, and Sam hopes, just for one tiny ridiculous moment, that Dean will recognize him after all, that everything will come back to him, that they can break the cure with sheer force of will.

The real world doesn’t work like that. Dean’s eyes don’t suddenly shine with comprehension, they don’t suddenly widen in surprise, his mouth doesn’t stretch into a grin, his honey-rough voice doesn’t say “Hey, Sammy” one more time.

Sweet god, what wouldn’t Sam give to just hear that one more time? It’s been three days since he heard his name out of Dean’s mouth and it’s been longer since it sounded right, because for a while there Dean had said it without the full support of his memories behind it, more muscle memory than anything else, phonetic repetition, and Sam hadn’t realized how no one ever says his name right except Dean.

He makes a grab for Dean then and he knows it isn’t fair, like trying to hug Bambi, and Dean gives a scared yelp. He jerks in Sam’s hold until Sam’s got his arms wrapped entirely around Dean’s torso, trapping his arms against his body, and pulls him into his own lap. Dean goes completely still, a small sound escaping his lips but it almost sounds like a sigh now. He melts into Sam’s embrace, briefly nuzzling the underside of Sam’s jaw before huddling his face into the crook of Sam’s shoulder.

Sam swallows against the grief lodged in his throat but it won’t go down. He, too, is robbed of all speech when Dean falls asleep against him, soft hitching breaths instead of the snores Sam is used to at night.

He doesn’t know how long he sits there, how long they sit there, how long Dean actually gets to sleep peacefully until the sun comes up and his hitching breaths turn into chokes. Sam is right there along with him, muffling his own sobs against the side of Dean’s head, eyes squeezed shut, and they shake together. 

Sam’s fingers dig into Dean’s flesh but it doesn’t matter anymore now, and isn’t that the most horrible thought? But Sam can’t help it, he wishes it was over already, he has never in his life wanted Dean to die but he wants nothing more right now because this, this is worse. Dean’s mouth is open but there is no brush of air, eyes wide, he is trying to draw air into his lungs but his body has forgotten how to do that and his chest is convulsing as if he was underwater and not wrapped in Sam’s arms and safe.

Sam wishes he could breathe for him and he does, for a while, it’s basic CPR and he knows how that works, his own dry mouth on Dean’s, but Dean can’t retain the air, doesn’t know how to make use of it.

It is the longest minute of Sam’s life and he wants nothing more than for it to be over. He has lived through countless Tuesdays, through hellhounds, through angels and Dean bleeding all over the floor, telling him that he did good, that Dean was proud of the both of them, of what they were and could do. All of that he, _they_ survived … to end up here. All those times, even all those Tuesdays, Sam never once wanted it to be over, he wanted it to last forever, forever so he could tell Dean all the things that were important, all the things they never said.

But now, Dean wouldn’t even be able to understand him. Hell, he might not even be able to hear him.

And then, as if on cue, it’s over. Dean’s body goes slack in Sam’s arms, slacker than before, not sleep-pliant but dead, so very dead, and Sam knows what that means, _dead_ , usually it’s not the end for a Winchester, never for a Winchester. But this time, he is not so sure.

His legs grow numb until they eventually fall asleep but Sam doesn’t. He sits there, Dean still in his arms, until the sun stands high in the sky. It is bright outside, too. Sunny. Sam thinks it should be raining. But that’s not the way things go. 

A new day has begun for everyone but him.


End file.
